


Claim

by RageSeptember



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (understated) reconciliation, 4x08 fill-in, Allusions to mental health issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blowjobs, Canon-Compliant, Dom/sub Undertones, Getting Back Together, M/M, Second person POV, allusions to grooming and sexual abuse, communiating through sex, handjobs, not exactly safe or sane and with complicated consent, porn only because it's highly relevant to the plot, season 4, they really do love each other okay but this is a very messy time in their lives, understated everything really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: Two nights later you're giving one of your regulars a lapdance when there's a slap to your arm and a curt “time's up, lovebirds” and you look up and there he is.There he is.Mickey wants back into Ian's life. Ian wonders if, and how, to let him. Or, the one where the boys conduct their meaningful conversations not by talking but by having sex.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 28
Kudos: 100





	Claim

**Author's Note:**

> This fic includes the infamous blowjob scene from 4x08, and with it all its complicated consent issues. This is slightly darker than my usual fare (albeit with a happy ending because these two idiots DO love each other, so, so much). Read at your own discretion.

Afterwards, you’re almost sure they were really there. You’re almost sure you didn’t just dream them.

Debbie, grown two inches and with a face no longer quite that of a kid. Lip, looking much the same as when you left, but worried in a way he can't quite hide and you don’t think you care for. It's harshing your groove, that pinched look. They're not here to party and their voices – _no, I'm good, can we talk, arrest you, stealing government property, let's go outside_ – cut through your happy buzz, sharp pebbles in your shoe on a sunny day, and maybe that's why you haven't told them you were back, 'cause you'd know it'd be like this. They're family and they're good people, _sure_ you're glad to see them, but Lip's questions just clashes with the beat of the music and this is supposed to be a good time, man, so why they've got to bring up all that stupid, boring shit that doesn't even matter anyway.

You have to go mix another drink, because that's your job right, and when you look up they're gone but there are other drinks to mix, and then it's your turn on the floor and Stephen's here tonight again and has brought his usual treats, you lose him later but there's a couple of other dudes throwing a party at their place and you go and then you go to the gym for good measure – or maybe you didn't, you're not sure, but it was a good, real good, only now that strange dull ache in your head is back and you're almost sure your brother and sister came by to see you last night.

You’re almost sure.

Mrs. Bergdoll calls a greeting as you stumble past her on the way to the bathroom and you reflexibely pull your lips into half a smile, call something back. She's nice; doesn't mind you staying here even after Monica went off with some guy she met when getting thrown out of Rover's.

You shower. The water is cold but at least there's water, fuck knows how it's still running. It clears your head a little, the cold, and you start to feel better again. Sharper. What does it matter what happened – or didn't happen – last night? Today's a brand new day, and you have a feeling it's going to be _fantastic_.

Work doesn't start for another couple of hours, so you do a bit of writing – gotta keep up with those ideas, these _thoughts_ you keep having; gotta write them down before you forget because what if you lose something important? – and you go for a run and grab some Subway, and then you're on the L headed for the Fairy Tail, music in your ears.

That's when it catches up with you, the thought behind the thought, the one you've been trying to outwrite, outrun, outlisten. You turn the music up up up, loud enough for the lady next to you to glare, but still the thought comes, you can't stop it, your mind keeps drifting back to last night and –

 _If_ Debbie and Lip came to see you yesterday, _if_ they were there, _if_ they know where to find you...

Will they tell him?

And if they do... will he come?

No. _No_. You don't want to think about that. He made his choice, he put on a goddamn tux and made it loud and clear for all the people to hear, in front of _his fucking dad_ , _I do_ , his hand in that whore's. He loves you – you are sure of it, still – but he did that, so what's love really worth, huh.

It's over, done with. He made his choice; you made yours. Maybe it didn't go exactly as planned with the army, but so what, it's better this way, you're rolling with it. Made lots of new friends, even if they don't know your real name, who cares about names when every night's a fucking party, and you wish you'd known this years ago, that life could be like this, fun, _easy_ , no fucking heartbreak and no fucking hiding, no cares.

It doesn't matter anyway. He won't come.

It doesn't matter.

\---

Two nights later you're giving one of your regulars a lapdance when there's a slap to your arm and a curt “time's up, lovebirds” and you look up and there he is.

There he is.

“Get up,” he says and you move without making a conscious decision to.

“It's my turn,” he says and sends George running and you don't know what to do or where to look and you don't even know if you're actually surprised that he's here.

“Curtis?” he says and there's a familiar sneer in his voice and you realize that you don’t want him to see you like this and it pisses you off, because you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, nothing to be ashamed of.

You could just walk away. Could call security and tell them he interrupted a lapdance or whatever, and if that doesn't get him thrown out the bunch of insults he will invariably throw at whoever comes to set him straight certainly will.

“Twenty-five bucks get you a dance,” you tell him instead, because fuck him; because you don't want him thrown out; because that’s all he is to you now, a customer. That’s all he chose to be, when he walked down that aisle.

He spits and he grumbles but he pays. He'd never have let you give him a lapdance when you were together but he pays for it now.

You push him down the black leather couch and straddle him, lean in, _how's your day going?_

He smells wrong. Something scented, spicy-sweet. You don't like it.

He wants to talk. You're giving him a fucking lapdance but he wants to _talk_ and he's angry and looking at you like you're so annoying, like you're out of your fucking mind. You can still feel his semi pressing against your ass when you switch positions to lean against him, though, and as you turn your face towards his, getting close, you can smell him through whatever perfumed shit he's wearing,

_Mickey._

He got married. You can't do this. He's still talking.

“Twenty-five bucks only gets you one dance,” you tell him. You stand up, away from him.

He won't let you go. _Hey. You don't wanna hang out, fine. Your dad's dying._ _ **Ian.**_ _Your family. Liam._

_Liam._

Something is about to burst and break open but then Roger is there and you don't know if you're relieved or not but when he asks you if _everything's okay here, Curtis_ , you quickly reassure him, shifting to stand next to Mickey.

As you walk away, you think about how immediately, how reflexively, you moved to shield him.

**\---**

You wake up a the crack of dawn, and maybe you should be surprised to find yourself in the Milkovich house but you're not.

Mickey's asleep in a chair in the corner, still fully dressed.

The bed smells of him, but smells of someone else too. You don't recognize the scent, but you know whose it must be, and _fuck no,_ you're not sleeping in the bed he shares with _her_. 

You should get out of here, maybe; get out and far away before he wakes up, but you're too tired, your legs are too unsteady for that and your thoughts too dull and slippery, so you just grab a pillow that smells like Mickey, and a couple of blankets, and you fall back asleep on the floor.

\---

You wake up with a headache and to the sight of Mickey's pregnant wife towering over you. It startles you – _where is Mickey_ – but you try to for cordiality, grasping for a couple of (probably) Russian phrases a guy you met at some party taught you.

Your attempt at charm wins you nothing. You leave.

**\---**

“I forgot to say,” Mrs. Bergdoll tells you when you stop by the old house for a change of clothes, “but there was a couple of kids came looking for your the other day. Said you were their brother. I told them you were at work. They find you?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

She nods and blinks at you through the cloud of smoke from her hash pipe. You consider asking her for a hit to take the edge off the comedown from last night, but you don't.

They know where you work, and they know where you live.

Nothing for it then. Time to go home.

\---

Liam's alive. Frank too, so far, but you don't care so much about that. Fiona looks overjoyed to see you, but looks haggard and worn thin too, and you hate that, but... you can't help but feel the tiniest bit relieved when you realize that everyone will be too busy dealing with the ramifications of her brutal fall from grace to worry very much about yours.

\---

He comes for you, and this time you thought he might. He blows you, which you thought he wouldn't.

It feels good, his mouth on you, but feels like something else too, something that for a moment is better than good: _vindication._

His arms are heavy on your tighs, his fingers dig into your sides as he holds on to you to keep his balance, and you close your eyes and lean your head back and mingling with the rush of pure carnal pleasure is the rush of knowing that, sure, he married _her_ , but he'll get on his knees for _you_. He'll come looking for you and find you and bring you home to his – _their_ – bed and once you run off he'll come looking again.

He'll suck your dick, just because you asked him to.

_I'll do it._

You hadn't expected that. You'd laugh in surprised glee, but – because you can't quite believe it, because you won't let him off that easy – you push instead. “Do what?”

His lips twist. He glances at you, immediately glances away. “Don't make me say it, asswipe.”

You don't. You _could_ make him; he admits as much. That can be enough, you think.

Still, you're no longer some lovesick puppy who'll come crawling back all grateful with your tail a-wagging the second he realizes what a fucking idiot he's been, you'redone chasing _him_ , so you don't bother to hide the smug teasing in your voice as you spell it out for him. You don't tell him _it's cool, you don't have to_ when he moves to crouch between your legs.

The face he makes suggests that you're a fucking nuisance, says _yeah okay_ _whatever_ , but the eager quickness of his hands and the way he looks up at you with pupils blow wide suggests that maybe he, too, has longed for this; dreamed of it, maybe, and ached.

His hand is warm around the base of your dick; his tongue wet with spit as runs it along your length, once, twice, before taking you into his mouth.

You bite back a moan. You're already fully hard. It's hurried and a little sloppy but it's _him_ and he's good at this, though fuck knows how _that_ happened, because you're pretty sure he's only ever done this with you, and not very often at that. He _likes_ this, you know that he does, but know too that it still costs him something; is intricately tied to all the things he's still struggling to admit and express.

_You love me and you're gay_ . Then gentle bob of his head tells you that he won't deny it again.

Fuck, but you've missed him. You have tried not to; have tried not to think of him at all – he made his choice, he married that whore, and you've spent the last few months running from the memory of him, trying to drown the taste of his lips in the taste of strangers, there's a whole world out there, _guys_ , so many of them, they _like_ you, and they're not all afraid to be who are they are and want what they want.

Some of them sucked your dick. It never felt like this.

You come in his mouth. You expect him to pull away when you make a small grunt to let him know you're close, but he doesn't. Stays right on you, around you, through it. Swallows.

He's never done that before.

He wipes at his mouth and looks up at you, eyebrows raised in half a challenge, like _are you fucking happy now?_ but there's something else there too, a hint of vulnerability still, uncertainty lingering: _**are**_ _you happy now?_

A curious tug at your heart; a softening, and a brief flash of something that feels _real_ , in a way not a lot of things have lately.

You allow it. You allow your walls to lower, just enough to allow him right back in, into your life and all the way into your stupid heart.

_Fuck_ , but you've missed him.

You scoot forward and reach out to cradle the back of his head, pulling him up for a kiss. Again, you half-expect him to pull away, and again he doesn't. Instead he lifts his chin to meet you, arms wrapping around your back in a loose embrace, and the two of you never kissed much, you didn't have the time needed for it to become a habit before everything went south, but like so much else with him it just _works;_ you just _fit._

You can taste yourself on his lips and on his tongue and that's strange but you don't care. You breathe him in, his shampoo, stale tobacco, no fucking perfume that smells like someone else, _Mickey_ ,

He straightens, getting to his feet only to push you back onto your back and climb on top to straddle you, and you don't resist and the familiar weight of him pressing down on you is heat is thrilling is comfort. Your hand is in his hair, his hand is around your wrist, but after a moment he shifts to lace your fingers together. He is kissing you like you're the first gasp of air after almost drowning.

You can feel his erection against your stomach, trapped between your bodies, but he doesn't seem bothered. He kisses you, like that's all he's ever wanted to do, like that's all he'll ever want to do.

For a little while you allow it, losing yourself to press of his lips; to his nose brushing and bumping against yours; the feel of his hair in your clenched fist. For a little while you let yourself know nothing but _him,_ and the joy of being claimed. For a little while – but then you shift, twist and push to roll over, so that you're both lying on your sides, face to face. You keep kissing him – but slower now, deliberate – as you reach down to undo his belt buckle and unzip his jeans. You don't immediately push your hand down his boxers, though: you let your fingers brush over his soft skin just above the waistband instead, let them skim just past the straining bulge of his underwear, unhurried.

His breath hitches; he curses against your mouth, but it's a soft thing, half-swallowed. He pushes forward, just slightly, looking for friction, _anything_ , and you promptly pull your hand back, and your head back too, just far enough to break the kiss.

His eyes snap open, searching yours, and you see his face still, caught, when he finds you already watching him.

There's a question in his eyes; uncertainty; confusion. Annoyance too, in the way his brow furrows. You just raise your eyebrows pointedly and hold his gaze.

He stares at your for a moment. You wait for him to consider telling you to _get the fuck on with it, Gallager, nobody likes a fucking tease._ You watch him bite his lip and you wait for him to decide against demands. When he stays silent and slumps ever so slightly, relaxing into aquiencense, the thrill coursing through your body are equal parts triumph and excitement.

You take a momen to watch him and he lets you. He doesn't look away or ask what the fuck you're staring at. His face is open,  _beautiful_ , his eyes that startling blue. You used to dream about it, a long time ago; about him looking at you like this,  _soft_ . 

Your eyes never leave his face as you slowly run your hand down his chest and slip it under his t-shirt to rest on his belly, and you smile a little when he lets out a long, unsteady sigh. Leaning in once more, you claim his lips for another kiss, and he responds eagerly, taking whatever you will give.

You can feel the tension in his body as your fingers roam the sharp curve of his hip; as they brush over his pubic hair; as you scratch at his inner thighs, caress and tease. You can feel the gust of air as he hisses into your mouth whenever your wrist brush against his dick.

But he keeps still. Waits.

There's a new sort of pleasure in this – in being allowed this – and for a moment you think that maybe you could keep it up for hours, but in the next you know that you could not, and his quiet moans are growing more frantic and you're starting to grow hard again, so you slide your hand inside his boxers. He whimpers as you wrap your fingers around his cock and it's not much of a handjob, really, it's rushed, too dry, but he doesn't seem to mind and you just want to feel him; want to hear his breathing quicken as his kisses grow sloppier.

He comes quickly, with a long, stuttering gasp, spilling over your hand, over his quarter zip, the sheets.

You don't say anything, just press your forehead against his, dry against damp. You hold him tight, sharing breath, while his hearbeat slows and steadies.

A minute, two. Your dick softens; you don't mind.

Eventually he pulls back a little, opening his eyes. He's flushed, still, but his gaze is sharp and clear.

You wipe your stitcky hand at his quarter-zip just to be a dick and he makes a disgusted face. “What the fuck, man?”

“It was already dirty.”

“Uh-huh. So's the fucking sheets, asshole, use those.”

You can feel your lips curl into a wide smile and see his doing the same, and then you're both laughing, like idiots, like giddy kids. He reaches for you and this kiss is languid, comfortable, and when you break apart you're still grinning.

Rolling over on your back, you reach for a cigarette, taking one drag before handing it to him. He accepts it with a pleased little hum in the back of his throat, a sound you've heard a hundred times after you've fucked him good and hard, and it goes straight to your cock, but goes straight to your heart too, so maybe you really are too fucking soft.

But he's here, isn't he, so maybe you are right to be.

You think you'd be happy to stay like this for a while, on the bed with him, just smoking, talking maybe, but: “Probably should head down and grab some dinner before they come looking for me again.” You glance at him. “Wanna join?”

“Nah, man, I'm good.” Doesn't feel like dealing with your family, most likely, but that's fine. You get it.

“Okay.” You stand, adjusting your pants and making sure there's no telltale stains. He remains on his back, looking dishevelled and loose and content, with his jeans still open and the smoke between his swollen lips.

Fuck, but you've missed him.

“I could bring you up a plate later?” you offer casually. “If you're staying.”

His eyes dart up to you and for a moment there's _so much_ on his face, hope, worry, longing, caution, joy, but all he says is, “Yeah?”

You smile. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Ian is being rather unfair in not considering the fact that Mickey's been through hell, and no, it's not very charming, but he's a teenager dealing with quite a few issues of his own. It is what it is.
> 
> I'm operating under the idea that Mickey went by the old house to look for Ian when he learned Svetlana had kicked him out, and found out that Ian had grabbed his things and left, and that this is what he refers to when he says “took all your shit”. 
> 
> I'm actually highly bothered by the fact that they don't use a condom for this, since Ian's been out and about and Mickey's had unprotected sex with a prositute, but then again, I don't really expect anything else from these stupidly reckless boys. Don't go have unproteccted sex unless you're monogamous though, kids. STD:s are real.


End file.
